There you sit like some Sphinx on my table,
Gazing, as if master of this stable,
Think you, because I pour your dish,
That, upon your mew, I bow to your wish?
As I compose, you flop on these leaves,
Thinking you are my muse, my word sieve,
Our Lord washed feet—I clean stray hair,
Is He less a master, for His low chair?
He humbled Himself, and He shall be praised,
I clean, feed, pet and fret, you are not fazed,
Go on and mew—I will not throw my shoe,
Masters are few, who are patient and rue,
Your issues grow, you must drink from a tub,
At your weird whims, your ears I must now rub.
Hark thee, dear cat! It’s time to pull your weight,
I could with ease leave thee in a milk crate,
I could with ease leave thee this eve, just flee,
I could fly from town, find glee in the sea,
I could fly somewhere that has cast their cats,
I could live with appreciative rats,
I could live as a slave that will soon rot,
I could live with some dark, damning despot,
Who throws his shoe when I do weep and whine,
Who shows a foe when I do smell like swine,
The prodigal left less to seek some more,
I will leave more, seek some unsheltered shore,
Where I will rule and reign, as master supreme,
You will daily rue my absence, I deem,
I have my hat, my hanky, here is my call,
I leave this my place to you, I leave my all.
Yet you sit now like some sad silly Sphinx,
My trip, my plan, I think you wish to jinx,
Up you rise, to your food-dish now you run,
With sad, baleful eyes, you mew, not for fun,
With sad, baleful eyes, you show me the bowl,
With sad, baleful eyes, you show it’s not full,
With sad, baleful eyes, you pierce my heart strings,
With sad, baleful eyes, I serve the Cat King.

Broom Snow
The Desert Schooner,
Las Vegas, Nevada
Thursday, October 22, 2015

Painting: “Sir Walter Scott’s Cat ‘Hinse of Hinsefeldt’ in the Armoury”
By British School
Oil on board, n.d.


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